Jingle Jangle

Tinkling reminiscent of tiny, silver bells.

I know what’s coming next.

This sound is all too familiar,

this jingle jangle

of mingle metal,

that has always been for me.

It was the sound of Christmas, leather reins,

echoing throughout the hills.

It was the sound of my mother’s laughter,

crisp and clean and clear

as it danced like the morning sun

on the air,

all the while, those Christmas bells

were ring-ting-tingling like freshly fallen snow

which I learned all too late can suddenly turn

black.

Black, black ice on an otherwise perfect road

and suddenly I’m falling

and a leg bone

shatters

and all I can hear besides my own shock

are Corey’s screams

and the clanging, the banging

of those Christmas reins.

A gunshot two hours later

and that beast

would never walk again.

Yet still I hear those Christmas reins

and the sound of my mother’s laughter clean and clear

like the morning sun on the morning air

before it fades to a hum as she washes silverware

in the soapy, soapy sink.

Clank, clink.

Ting, tong.

Jingle jangle.

The years pass

but those same knives

in the sink

somehow follow her

to the tub

on a night when my father had had one too many drinks

and my mother too many loves.

Clitter clatter.

It drops from his hand,

soiled once again,

leaving a stain on my soul

that no dish soap could wipe clean.

And now I hear it again.

Tiny silver bells,

strung together

on a tiny,

silver

ring.

Jingle heart-wrenching jangle.

The front door swings open wide

like the flap of a wing

and I hear my roommate’s boots cross the threshold

right before the door snaps shut again

like a heart valve,

saving the next beat for her

and only for her.